Villain's Breeding System: Evolving 999+ Harem into an SSS-Rank Legion-Chapter 141 - Arriving at the Airport

She yanked her hand back.

Sat up.

Stared at her own hand like it had done something without permission. Which it had. Technically.

She stood up.

The clock on her nightstand said 11:58 PM.

Two days. Or three, depending on how you counted.

He’d taken her against the furniture room’s bed and then simply — left.

Walked out.

Tucked himself back in with the nonchalance of someone who had just completed a routine task and had other things to get to.

Technically it was her who ran away, but shouldn’t he have just followed behind her, like a gentleman should? No, he didn’t. He simply did not follow her to console her.

Two days of nothing.

No message. No appearance. No sign that anything had occurred.

She stomped her foot.

Just once. Hard. Against the apartment floor.

"You bastard." She pointed at the empty room like he was in it. "WHERE ARE YOU."

The room did not answer.

She looked at herself in the full-length mirror on the back of her bedroom door. Sleep-wrinkled tank top. Jeans she hadn’t bothered to change out of for the second night in a row. Hair that had seen better arrangements. Eyes that were slightly swollen from the combination of frustration and the crying she’d done earlier when she’d been sure he wasn’t coming back.

Had she been too easy.

The thought arrived and lodged itself.

She turned sideways to the mirror. Looked at the profile of her body. Not bad — she knew objectively it wasn’t bad, had been told enough times, had noticed enough reactions in rooms. She was twenty-two and reasonably assembled and had been saving something for reasons that now seemed less like principles and more like mismanagement.

Did he not like having sex with me?

She said it to her own reflection.

Her reflection looked back with the expression of someone asking the question they’d been trying not to ask for forty-eight hours.

Maybe she’d been too — what. Inexperienced. Obvious. Had she made the wrong sounds? Had there been a correct set of sounds she should have been making and she’d made the wrong ones? She’d been operating entirely without a reference point, she’d had approximately thirty seconds of preparation before—

"Do you really think I wouldn’t like a pussy that tight?"

The voice came from behind her.

She spun.

He was in her room.

Standing near the window in the dark, hands in his pockets, his posture the posture of someone who had been there for a little while and was not particularly concerned about announcing himself. The low light from the streetlamp outside caught one side of his face. Purple eyes, calm. The slight curve at the corner of his mouth that wasn’t quite a smile.

Her heart did something irregular.

"You—" The word came out wrong. Too high. She cleared her throat. "How did you get IN here—"

"Does it matter."

"YES it matters, that’s — that’s a door, there’s a lock, you can’t just—"

He looked at her.

She stopped.

And then, because forty-eight hours of internal architecture were finally too much pressure for the walls she’d been maintaining them with, she walked directly across the room and pressed her face into his chest.

Both arms wrapped around him.

She grabbed the fabric of his shirt with both fists and held.

He was warm.

Impossibly, infuriatingly warm. Like standing next to a heat source. His arms came up around her after a moment — not surprised, not hurried, just encircling — and she felt him hold her the way large, certain things hold smaller things. Like there was no effort required.

She didn’t say anything for a full ten seconds.

Neither did he.

Then:

"I thought you left," she said into his shirt. Her voice came out embarrassingly thick. "Two days. You didn’t — I thought—"

"I was busy."

"You were busy." She pulled back slightly to look at his face. Her eyes were doing the thing she’d been trying to prevent them from doing. "You took my — in the MALL, Raven, there were PEOPLE, you took my — and then you just—"

His thumb found her jaw. Lifted it.

"Stop."

She stopped.

"I’m here now."

"That doesn’t—"

"Do you want to come with me?"

She blinked. The shift was too fast. Her brain, still organizing itself around the grievance, stumbled.

"What?"

"I’m going somewhere," he said. "Do you want to come."

"Now? It’s midnight—"

"Yes or no."

She looked at him.

At his face in the low light. At the certainty of it — not the certainty of someone who expected to be told yes, but the certainty of someone who had already accounted for both answers and had continued regardless.

"Where," she said.

"Las Vegas."

The cars arrived before she’d finished changing.

She’d grabbed clothes — reasonable travel clothes, jeans and a light jacket, her hair pulled back in approximately thirty seconds — and come back to find Raven at her window looking at the street, and then she’d looked at the street and said nothing for a full five seconds.

Two vehicles.

A Rolls Royce in matte black that took up the entire width of the residential lane and seemed to regard the other parked cars with polite disdain. Behind it, a Ferrari the color of dried blood.

The Rolls Royce’s driver door opened. A woman in a suit stepped out and opened the rear door without looking up.

"I can’t—" Minjung looked at the cars. "These are yours?"

Raven had already walked past her.

She looked at her apartment. At the modest, perfectly adequate apartment with the water-stained ceiling and the two-day-unwashed dishes in the sink. Then at the cars.

She followed.

The interior of the Rolls Royce was something from a different category of existence. Dark leather so smooth it seemed to have no texture. The kind of quiet that cost money to engineer. She sat down and the seat did something gentle to her spine.

The city moved past outside.

Raven was looking at his phone — not a normal phone interaction, the rapid, focused movement of someone managing something active. She watched his hands. His forearms.

Stop watching his forearms.

"Where’s that woman?"

She hadn’t meant to ask it quite that way. She’d been going to say — she’d had a more tactful framing planned.

He looked up.

"Which one," he said.

"The — the one from the mall. The — the older one." She waved a hand. "The one who was with you. Your..." She cleared her throat. "Your whore."

Something passed behind his eyes. Not displeasure. The specific quality of someone who knows something the other person in the conversation doesn’t.

"She’ll be where we’re going," he said.

"She lives in Las Vegas?"

"She will be," he said. "By the time we arrive."

Minjung considered pursuing this. Decided against it for now.

The airport came faster than any airport had a right to.

Not the commercial terminal. They went through a gate on the far side — private aviation, the part of the airport that operated at a different pace and didn’t have check-in queues or boarding groups. A woman in a black uniform met them on the tarmac.

And there, lit against the dark, was the jet.

Minjung had seen private jets in films.

She understood them as a concept.